


Amble On (and your friends shall surely find you)

by Nightsrk



Series: Red Hoods and Blue Moons (and very angry alley kids) [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types, Red Hood: Lost Days, Under the Red Hood
Genre: Ableism, Accidental Baby Acquisition, Deaf Jason Todd, Gen, Homelessness, Jason Todd Has Issues, Jason Todd-centric, Service Dogs, i wrote this instead of working, if you're here for terry be warned he's the baby and doesn't have much of a character role, internalized ableism, jason todd has mental health problems but isn't really ready to admit that, john blake has been heavily edited but im trying to stay true to character, schizophrenic jason todd, schizophrenic john blake, yet - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-21 13:13:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15558492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightsrk/pseuds/Nightsrk
Summary: Jason's always been the bad Robin, the failure, the mistake. He knows he's an example now, the one that you don't want to be like, lest you end up like him. He doesn't understand why he suddenly can't seem to do his fucking job, though. Is he aggressive? Maybe. Dedicated? Absolutely. Only now he's wasting entire patrols searching for noises no one else can hear, jumbling his nights and what-happened-when's.He doesn't like it.He doesn't like any of the answers why, either.





	Amble On (and your friends shall surely find you)

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! Welcome to my first ever posted fanfic haha. I hope you enjoy it <3  
> i'm drawing from a mishmash of different canons and headcanons for this, but you don't need to be like, a dc expert to read. or even a dc amateur. I'm just a bitch who loves jason
> 
> headsup john's technically too young to have schizophrenia let alone have it for A While but like... the batman canons are a disaster when it comes to mental illness and i needed him to be younger for future one shots should i manage to write them. please don't consider this an entirely accurate rendition of schizophrenia, as i do not personally have it nor am i a medical professional, and im working in a universe with mind melting magic
> 
> there's not really any majorly graphic squicky content, especially given how dark n gory the canon is, but i'm including a couple of additional warnings at the bottom just in case. There is some pretty heavy ableist undertones to the gotham culture included and jasons own inner monologue includes a lot of internalized ableism, so watch out for that if it bothers you.

It’s Lazarus madness, is all. It’s just that damn pit, lingering in his head. Jason’s exhausted, getting less sleep than usual the last… forever, turning his thoughts green and violent. Sometimes just violent, and not always towards whoever or whatever is sticking in his craw that week. Sometimes it’s at himself, which he thought he was over finally, but no, and sometimes it’s just.

Sometimes he doesn’t know why he came back, just to suffer and make everyone suffer.

There’s just this noise he’s been looking for, sometimes footsteps, or someone crying, or the tick tock of something bad. It’s impossible to ignore. He’ll spend hours tearing up a warehouse looking for it, never getting any closer, and then it’ll go. It’s driving him- heh- batty. His actual patrol is suffering, and his day life is definitely taking a dive. He spends his patrols doing shit that doesn’t matter and his days not doing stuff that does. It’s impossible to keep up with keeping himself alive, right now, because those fucking sounds don’t care that he needs to shower, it’s time to go look for the crying lady Jason-

One of the homeless kids, a fearless brat called John, has been wandering around at nights to help him look. John’s got a massive mutt of a dog, Monami, who looks even bigger and more threatening with the large vest she wears, so Jason tries not to feel too worried about this kid wandering around in the industrial part of crime alley at night. John’s been a street brat for a few years- god knows Jason learned fearlessness by that age already. You have to, to survive. Screw Batman, screw vigilantism, screw training in the League, it was scrabbling as a kid in the alleys that taught Jason how to survive.

Anyway, back to the noise.

He’s convinced it’s pit madness. It’s a hallucination of some kind- no matter what he does or where it goes or what kind of earplugs he tries, it’s consistent. It starts, it stays, it leaves. He can never find it. His hearing’s been half wonky since Joker blew him to kingdom come, but he can hear these damn noises clear like bells. His noise-text filter in the helmet never picks ‘em up, useless thing, and John can’t hear them at all, and just ambles around because it’s impossible to search with intent for something that’s not real. He’s probably just enjoying not having to be on edge for once, with Red Hood nearby. He’s a skinny kid, with big blue eyes. Big dog or no, it’s dangerous out here for him.

It doesn’t matter that it’s madness, though. The sounds- he can’t keep a coherent thought these days- it doesn’t matter they aren’t real. He needs to find it. It scratches at his skin like something is urging him forward. There’s no second noise to tell him to go look for it, like Talia urging him forward, he’s just gotta with everything inside of him. It’s the same kind of itch that told drove him to stay in Gotham, the same kind of itch he feels every time he leaps into a room full of men with guns and damns the consequences.

(the same itch, coupled with all-encompassing fear, that made him decapitate and mutilate bodies, in the hopes no one would come back like he did)

(it’s a mercy. The only one he knows how to give, anymore)

It’s gotta be pit madness. The hallucinations, the weird impulses. It’s gotta be madness.

Right now, it’s the sound of crying. He’s been in the same back alley for half an hour already- John’s poking his head under a dumpster and taking a third glance as he kicks half-heartedly at a pile of trash. He doesn’t want to leave but he knows he ain’t gonna find anything. If only she would stop crying.

He stops to give Monami a few pets, John laying on the alley ground still and gazing up at him expectantly. “I don’t think we’re going to find anything.” he admits “You should go to wherever it is you spend the nights- I should finish patrol.” Or skulk around this goddamned alley until the noises stop. His vision is the red of his helmet display but everything feels sick, and grey. Not green, though.

“Uh huh,” says John, not getting up “Is the lady still crying?”

“Fuck off,” he snaps. John blows a raspberry at him.

He has stuff to do, okay? Drug dealers to terrify, Bats to harass. The working ladies on 18th, he spends a few minutes with them every night for gossip. He can’t spend all night in an alley letting himself be crazy.

“You should adjust your meds,” says John, rolling over and pushing himself up “because you aren’t doing too good. I can smell the sweat on you through your armor- when’s the last time you bathed?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he snaps, embarrassed. It hasn’t been that long- or has it? He can’t tell. He doesn’t smell anything.

John shoots him an unamused look, scrunching his dirty face, the hypocritical shit. “The schizophrenia? You need better antipsychotics so you can stop spending five hours doing something you know is a waste of time. Don’t be so embarrassed- I have it, too; when my meds stop working I can spend hours trying to walk through a solid wall. I’m not even a meta! I know I’m not a meta! I do it anyway!”

Jason sighs, and runs a hand over the helmet. “I don’t have schizophrenia, okay? And I’m not medicated. I’m just being off.”

John blinks. “Are you sure?” he squeaks out disbelievingly. “Because I’m pretty sure you do. You should make sure.”

Jason snorts, turns to walk away because there’s no way to explain murder trauma and pit madness to a little civilian kid. “Go sleep. I need to get to work.”

The crying has stopped. He can do this.

 

Here’s the thing though- he doesn’t remember much from Before, most of it washed away in a haze of green- but he remembers the itch. He remembers Batman getting angry with him for taking risks. He remembers lunging forward too early, thinking now, now, now. He remembers-

He remembers going to check out sounds on patrol, and Batman getting frustrated with him for wasting time. Endless fights about him not taking Robin seriously, or being reckless, blowing off patrol in favour of homework that he sometimes didn’t do for no reason at all, Alfred goading him into showers or taking care of his room-

Batman says to the others not to be like Jason, that Jason was a bad kid, but mostly Jason remembers being confused about why he couldn’t take his water cups down to the kitchen. He doesn’t remember being all that aggressive. He doesn’t remember a lot of things. Batman says it was his fault. Batman says there’s something wrong with him, that he's been broken from the start.

It’s got to be pit madness. He can’t- he didn’t- he isn’t wrong, he can’t’ve been made broken. He can’t have something wrong with him. He doesn’t want Batman to be right. He doesn’t want to be a mistake. 

That’s why John has to be wrong. He has to be. He won’t be like the lunatics in the asylum- he’s not a mistake, there can’t be something wrong with him that just is, that’s on him, that’s not the pit, not the anger, not his own semi-rational choice.

He’s always made choices. Even pit mad, he chose. Even with that itch, he chooses. So it doesn’t matter. It won’t matter. He won’t let it matter.

 

There’s seven different water glasses by his bed in the safehouse he’s using. The dishes in the sink have crusted over. He’s got a couple of bruises he should ice and isn’t, a blister on his heel that popped and became infected he’s letting fester. He should shower, but he isn’t. He should clean his gear, and he isn’t. There’s a small pile of dirty clothes on the floor because he hasn’t washed anything in weeks even though he only owns like, three outfits. His bedsheets feel gross.

He… doesn’t like this. He should clean.

He doesn’t.

“I’m not schizophrenic.” he says, out loud. “Crazy, sure, batshit bonkers, maybe. But not schizophrenic.”

He’s pretty sure he’s right.

He’s just not sure if he means himself, or John.

Last night he want to talk with the ladies, like he always does, except he missed the last three nights apparently. He can’t keep his nights straight, what’s happening when, if he’s done something, if he hasn’t. Nothing bad happened in the time he missed, so there’s that, at least. These goddamn noises are screwing with his life.

There’s a tapping noise coming for somewhere but he’s already checked the doors and windows, so he’s trying to ignore the impulse to make even more of a mess looking for it. Where does John get off saying that shit?

…He feels kind of bad, cursing the kid. John’s been real sweet about helping him, as much as it’s both unasked for and unneeded. Not unwanted, though. Maybe. It can be okay, being around someone that he isn’t afraid of. Someone not a part of his world, because Jason’s only got enemies now, no real allies. John’s quiet presence is comforting in a way Jason doesn’t like to admit he needs.

And besides, even if John only told Jason that he was schizophrenic last night, it’s pretty easy to tell there’s something wrong with him. He glances around too much, laughs at weird moments, makes the wrong facial expressions. Sometimes, when he speaks, it’s comes out as a string of nearly incomprehensible mush. Jason knew there was something there. It made him seem less like a potential enemy and more like a kid who got the short end of a shitty stick. It’s not uncommon for families to leave their crazies on the streets of crime alley, it’s just uncommon for them to live as long as John had. How much of that fearlessness is the crazy, and how much is experience, Jason doesn’t know, but he’s known the whole time there’s something off about the kid.

And now John says there’s something off about Jason.

…It’s got to be pit madness.

 

Whatever it is, it’s screwing with his patrol. He can’t stop chewing at the thought, see, and it’s messing with his focus. The noises aren’t helping.

He found a baby, a goddamned baby, left out on a roof. It’s not… it’s uncommon, but it happens. The mom is a kid herself, probably, or sick, or scared. A drug addict, a working lady, someone whose partner gets violent. Someone who can’t have a baby. So the kid gets left- usually at Leslie’s clinic, sometimes at churches. Sometimes in the nearest alleyway, bright lit corner, or secluded rooftop. The thing is skinnier than he thinks it should be, and it’s screaming like it’s being paid. Jason’s already fiddled with his audio-to-text settings, so it’ll translate speech but leave other sounds alone, and lowered the audio input from the comm system so he’s getting less noise overall. John, who was easy enough to find once Jason realized he absolutely did need help this time, already speaks loudly, another quirk, so he’s practically shouting over the tears, which helps.

The only thing he can really hear, at the moment, is the laughing, and he’s trying like hell not to glance over his shoulder for it.

The baby was in a box with a ratty old blanket, and he can’t bring himself to check if it’s a boy or girl- seems kind of rude? And there’s no name. John’s got it, conversation from last night forgotten, trying to calm it down by bouncing and making those cutesy gurgling noises people make at babies.

“You know Doctor Thompkins’ clinic?” he asks, and gets a quick nod back. “We’ll have to take it there in the morning, once it opens back up.”

Leslie, of course, would like to be open 24/7, but even she needs to sleep. The night is for working on the Bats, too, the ones too hurt for Alfred to deal with. Jason’s been going there since before he was Robin, all the way back with mom- with Catherine- and she used to tell him to knock on the door anytime, because she tended to sleep at the clinic.

“Okay,” says John. “She needs to chew- to eat food, though. And warmer clothes. Another blanket, at least.”

Jason sniffs, rubbing the helmet agitatedly. Ugh. Supplies he doesn’t have. “Can’t it survive a few hours?”

John fixes him with a steely glare, or as steely as a seventy pound schizophrenic can be, and says “She.” very firmly. Monami isn’t even bothering to back John up so he looks intimidating, instead looking fucking delighted about the prospect of a baby, sitting obediently at John’s feet “You don’t know very much about babies, do you?”

They’re adorable. John and Monami, that is, not the 5 pound squirming bag of loud meat.

“She.” he agrees, because heck if he’s gonna check. “And no, not at all.”

“Hmm,” says John, moving over next to him so he can see. “Don’t they kind of look like fleshy turnips?”

…She does, with her head all purple from screaming and her pale shoulders. She’s all wet and snotty and really ugly and delicate looking without any teeth, but John doesn’t seem to be bothered at all. “I have two older siblings and three younger ones.” he says. “I used to help take care of them. Trust me, the screaming is probably because she’s cold and hungry.”

“Okay.” he says, and doesn’t ask about that. Not his business. Anyway, he’s got some petty cash- he’ll send John in to buy the supplies with it since he’s kind of. A dangerous, murdering vigilante/crime lord.

The baby is crying and the sound is so different from the clear shrillness of someone laughing. He never thought for a second this crying was unfindable. But he almost didn’t go look because he wanted to look for the laughing and he hates himself for that a bit. But he chose different, he found the baby, and went to go look for John for help. So maybe that’s… okay. Maybe he’ll be okay, Lazarus madness or otherwise.

(the fact that he even thought about prioritizing his crazy over the world makes him sick)

“There’s a corner shop about a block away that should work,” John says. “I think maybe we should try and wash up, too. Dirty hands- newborns can’t get vaccines.”

“Ugh, you’re right.” One of the things he’s always been grateful for are the comprehensive vaccine programs in the poorer areas of Gotham. Unless you can’t get them for some reason, you do. The chicken pox rate in Park Row is lower than in the Diamond District, because of all the fucking anti-vaxxers. “Okay, new plan-“

Don’t do it. Don’t be so impulsive you seem to be going a little crazy, Jason. Is your apartment any cleaner than this rooftop? Isn’t that dangerous- you could get John killed. Playing chicken with your own life is one thing; the kid doesn’t need this.

“I have a safe house nearby,” he says instead “We’ll take her there, where it’s warm and relatively clean and shit. We can scrub down, get the supplies, try to keep the baby alive for one goddamned night.”

“You’re going to let me see your face?” John asks. “I don’t want to get you in any trouble.”

“Yeah, no offense, but I’d rather keep the helmet on.” For reasons of his identity, because his hearing is jacked and he needs the audio-to-text help, because his own voice has gone wonky, apparently- people always give him weird looks for his speech in his civvies, but never through the voice modulator which evens out his volume and hides any mispronounced words. “If word got out you know my face, you’d be in a lot of danger.”

“Okay,” John nods, looking relieved. He rocks the baby gently but she still lets out another ear-splitting screech. “Okay, so a safehouse. Lead the way.”

 

He hasn’t used this particular safehouse in ages. It’s covered in a fine layer of dust and smells empty, but it’s better off than his apartment, and it’s not full of weapons, explosives, or bits of people. It’s a replacement apartment if he ever has to burn the one he’s using- looks like he’ll have to burn this one, instead, so no one can track him back through it through John.

He still has to duck inside first and disable the traps before waving the kid up the fire escape- no tetrodotoxin darts for babies or little kids. John and Monami have perfected the art of following him from the street, and most people that lurk outside for little kids at night are put off by the wailing of the baby.

John jumps up and pulls himself onto the fire escape easily, Monami following with a powerful leap. Jason loves that dog- he loves every dog, but Monami is as close to his as he can get at the moment. He’s entertained the thought of trying to get one that’s actually just for himself, but his lifestyle right now isn’t exactly pet-friendly. It might be neat, though, to have one as unwaveringly obedient and loyal as Monami is. Someone who loves him.

(He’s still on the outs with the Bat gang; he probably will be forever. He never sees Bruce unless they’re doing violence to each other over Jason’s jobs, Bruce shoving his nose and morals where they don’t belong, sometimes with the Replacement, or the newest Robin and isn’t that a kick in the pants, that he went and got another bird, a murder bird, but it’s okay this time. Prick. Dickiebird stays in Bludhaven, or maybe Jason’s just never seen him except for that one time Dick did his best to flatten Jay, mouth thin in anger, maybe even hatred, because while rage is common, Dickiebird rarely dips into loathing. The new girlies and he have never crossed paths, and Babs isn’t really out on the town often anymore. )

(maybe that’s why he didn’t shoo John away that first night- he’s so lonely sometimes. Except for the noises, the flickers of people he’s starting to realize don’t exist and aren’t stalking him, the hatred inside, he’s all alone)

“Wow,” says John, ducking in through the window. “Okay, we need rags- cloths- blankets- to warm up Taylor. Did she have some kind of nametag? Because I think she’d make a good Taylor.”

“Uh, no. Why Taylor?” he asks, shoving the window down and latching it. The safe-house is sparse and utilitarian, a little grungy bachelor’s suite, but for a street kid it’s got to seem nice. “I don’t have any perishables, but there’s cans of stuff if you’re hungry. A shower, and you can try your luck at fitting into the clothes.”

“I think it’s more keeping them up than getting them on,” says John, rubbing his hat against an itch with a look of intense concentration. “First we should get the baby warm and clean. Can you get formula and diapers? I can bathe her by myself.”

Jason squints. “I would prefer not to?” Babies are beyond him in so many ways. He’ll screw it up. “Can’t babies drink milk?”

“No. You’re a vigilante, buying baby formula isn’t going to ruin your masculine reputation, don’t worry.” John shoots him a cheeky grin because he knows that’s not his damn problem, thank you, and shifts crying baby Taylor around to rest on his hip so he can fiddle with the sink. “If you’re that unsure, go to a supermarket and try and find one of the employees that looks like a mom to help you.”

Monami, ever helpful, boofs at him encouragingly.

“I guess,” he sighs, thoroughly beaten.

 

He changes out of his vigilante gear before he leaves, even peeling off the domino mask to expose his face like a normal person. He keeps the hood of his hoodie tucked low over his eyes, but John pointedly keeps his back to Jason, carefully rinsing baby Taylor off in the sink. Monami even lies down at a tap of John’s heel, pressing her big, fluffy paws over her eyes. He gives her a quick pat with his bare hand, massaging her soft ears, and leaves quickly before John can get curious.

There’s a little 24 hour supermarket only a couple of blocks away. He’s been there a couple of times; the night cashier is an exhausted looking woman with friendly brown eyes that’s helped him staunch a bleeding wound once when he came before. She’s probably a mom. Or mom adjacent, like John apparently. She takes his hasty lie of “his niece is staying with him unexpectedly and he needs supplies since it was a surprise and his brother didn’t bring any diapers or anything, could she please help” with an easy nod, walking him through purchasing a few days supplies (just in case Dr. Thompkins can’t take Taylor right away). It’s late (early) and no one is around, so he doesn’t feel as guilty about eating so much of her time as he would during the day.

A few times, he sees someone just out of the corner of his eye, but the cashier (Simone, her name tag says) doesn’t even glance over. He chokes down the urge to pull his gun and go look, but he does stare once or twice, long enough for Simone to tap his arm to get his attention. Everything else is relatively painless and he leaves with a bag full of formula, and diapers, and other assorted baby products he’s not exactly sure how to use. Hopefully John’s got a head about him about what to do.

When he gets back, Taylor is still crying, but maybe not quite as desperately. He can’t really tell. John’s got his back facing to the door- probably heard him trying to unlock it, ‘cause it took a minute to unlock it because he was trying to get a better look at whoever was following him.

He’s accepted the answer is ‘nobody’. He’s pissed about it. He’s even more pissed whatever stranglehold he has on the impulse to Look For Things eats into his willpower the same way Talia’s quiet commands ate into his morals. He’s not going to hold out forever. One day he’s gonna ignore something important. He refuses.

He leaves the supplies on the bed and ducks into the bathroom to lock his helmet back in place. It seals with a hiss, the filtered air of the helmet much cleaner than the apartment must. He should clean it up a bit.

What a joke. He can’t even keep the place he sleeps in clean right now. He grips the edge of the sink and gazes into the eyeholes of his red helmet hatefully. Becoming the Red Hood was meant to take something from the Joker, meant to become a symbol of how he lived and could exist in spite. He wasn’t meant to be more like him, wasn’t meant to be some kind of-

Pit madness. Lazarus rage. Years and years of violence and pain. He doesn’t want to be schizophrenic, too. He refuses to allow himself to neglect his responsibilities. Sometimes he didn’t have very many of them, but he’s always made his own decisions, and in this he says no. If something’s affecting him, changing his choices, he’ll find a way around it.

(even in killing the Bat, he chose that. He tried to carry through. Would he have, without the pit? Without Talia? Probably not. But he still chose.)

John’s wrestling with the formula when he leaves the bathroom, taking a quick glance at the red helmet before grinning at him fully with a scrunched up face. The baby is swaddled into all three of the shirts he keeps here, crying on the bed like a caterpillar, with Monami eagerly waiting nearby to keep watch in case the thing like, develops the muscles to roll herself around, probably.

John says something, but the helmet doesn’t really pick it up and he can’t hear it anyway, so he cocks his head and hopes he looks confused enough for John to get the hint.

He does. “Do you remember what the clock of is needle lady’s office is open.” But it doesn’t really help. John twists his mouth like he’s aware something wrong just came out of it.

Oh, wait. Needle lady. “Doc Thompkin’s office opens at seven. We’ve got another three hours.”

John nods, and Jason hesitantly offers again. “If you want to shower while the formula heats up, I can watch the stove.” He doesn’t want to insult the kid, but he is pretty dirty. “Might be best to get all clean while you’re handling a baby instead of just your hands.”

John twists his mouth and nods “Yeah, probably. But my clothes are gross, either way.”

“I have a sweater and some pants in one of the closets. You can wear that, and I’ll take your stuff down to the wash downstairs.” He keeps his voice as casual as it gets through the filter, keeping himself busy with bothering Monami. The first time Alfred tried to take his filthy street clothes to wash he had almost cried. Living- surviving on the streets make you rough, makes you angry, makes you defensive and possessive.

“I guess,” says John. “I’m sure I smell terrible. Okay. Let the water boil for a minute, and then turn the heat off, okay? I’ll do the rest. Where’s the bathroom?”

He points, oddly pleased that John trusts him that much. John points at the formula aggressively and disappears into the bathroom. Monami boofs gently, licking the crying baby on the head while John suddenly Appears, rifling through one of the pockets on Monami’s vest. There’s a cheerful rattle and he picks out three blue bottles with pills of differing sizes in them.

“Antipsychotics?” Jason asks.

“Yeah, Monami keeps track of when I’m supposed to take them for me. I’m up at weird hours so our schedule is a little wonky,” he says, prying off the cap off one. Jason grabs for it, manhandling John’s hands into pressing the cap back on.

“I didn’t know she was a service dog- the vest doesn’t say.”

“It’s unofficial.” John gives him a quick grin and tries to tug the medication back “I started feeding her and she ended up being real smart, is all.”

“Go shower, first” he says firmly, not letting go “I’ll put some soup on so you can eat, first. Medication on an empty stomach is just asking for stomach ulcers.”

John pouts, but tucks the bottles back into Monami’s vest obediently enough, before going back to the bathroom. The water starts up just a second later.

Jason grins privately. Aww, John really does trust him. He grabs the clothes he mentioned out of his drawers and leaves them just outside the bathroom door, before going to rifle through his cabinets for a couple of cans of decent soup.

By the time he wrestles a pot of 5 bean soup together, the water has begun to boil and Monami is trying the cheer the baby up by groaning in time with her cries. The shower shuts off a moment later.

“Clothes by the door!” he shouts, and politely doesn’t look when the door cracks open for a moment. After another, John shuffles out and switches off the burner for the formula water, dumping some out into a wide, shallow bowl Jason pulls down from the shelf for him so it’ll cool down faster.

Jason’s clothes are well beyond comically big. The neck of the sweater is practically as wide as his shoulders, and dips down very far; the sleeves are pushed up sloppily and the hem hangs to his knees, not that you can really tell given the huge, baggy sweatpants that are pooling over his feet. It’s weird to see him with his hat off, his shaved head covered in long scabs from where it looks like he’s been scratching himself.

Jason bites back a snort. “Watch the soup, would you? I’ll go put your things in the wash.”

“Okay!” John chirps, grabbing for the wooden spoon and giving it an unnecessarily vigorous stir.

The dirty clothes are in a pile on the floor, which is sopping wet. He doesn’t look too closely at them because he really doesn’t want to know, just notes that John layers everything like he should be doing. He pokes uncertainly at the shoes John hasn’t put back on, which are held together with cardboard and duct tape. He’s not sure what colour they’re supposed to be.

He leaves his helmet in the bathroom again, tugging the hood back up. John doesn’t even glance his way, busy with prepping the baby bottle. Taylor continues crying and jesus, Jason wants lungs like that.

There’s no one in the machine room because it’s 3-something am on a Wednesday. So, that’s fair. When he gets back, the soup is cooling in two bowls, and the bottle has disappeared, even though the canister of formula is open on the kitchen counter. He’s assuming it’s in the fridge, to help it cool off faster, because Taylor has got to be viciously hungry at the moment. John’s gently bouncing Taylor again, Monami balancing with her big paws on John’s skinny shoulders she can nuzzle the baby, too.

Thank god he went to find John. He’d be so lost.

Jason lurches towards the bathroom when he realizes he still doesn’t have his helmet on. So that’s why Taylor sounds quieter, he doesn’t have an amplifier going. Hell, he’s never becoming a father.

He grabs the bowls first thing and moves them to the rickety table in the center of the apartment, pulling out a couple of spoons from one of the drawers and dropping them on the table with a clatter “Come eat. It’ll be a little hot, but after you finish and take your pills, the bottle should be cool enough.”

“It’s in the fridge.” John says, nodding like he’s agreed to something. He brings Taylor with him, gently soothing the baby. He shoves the first spoonful in his mouth carelessly, and doesn’t even flinch even though it’s got to burn. Jason can empathize.

He clicks up the faceplate of the helmet just a little bit, enough to expose his chin and mouth so he can eat. John’s eyebrows fly up and Jason grins roguishly. “I totally thought somehow you were gonna get the soup through your helmet!” John squeaks, and pauses. “I think I’m late on my meds.”

“That’s doesn’t even make any sense!” Jason protests. “It’s a solid mask, and I’m not a meta!”

“It made sense in my head!” says John in what sounds like a protest, until he tacks on, “Which, to be fair, is usually a sign that it doesn’t”

Jason snorts, and smiles. John grins back, perpetual good mood intact despite Taylor’s best efforts.

Another few moments pass, in which John puts as much soup in his face as he can stand, cheeks pinking up from the high temperature. He takes his pills in the middle of the bowl, two from one bottle, and one from the other two, and then says something to Monami when he’s tucking the bottles back inside of Monami’s vest pockets.

Jason isn’t sure what’s going on for a moment as Monami goes to the fridge, opens the door with her mouth, and honest to god, pulls out the baby bottle. She even nudges the door closed first, before going to John.

“I want a dog that can do that,” says Jason, in what absolutely is not a whiny tone of voice. John giggles, and squirts some of the formula onto his wrist.

“It’s still a little warm,” he pouts. “Sorry Taylor, you’ll have to wait.”

“You’d think she’d pass out by now,” Jason says, flicking his fingers at Monami so she’ll come over for pets “How much can one baby scream?”

“You’d be surprised,” John answers. “Babies are weird and weak but really, really annoying.”

Jason barks out a startled laugh, suddenly grateful he decided to wait for his soup to cool down a little more. There’s no way he wouldn’t’ve gotten soup spray on his helmet if he had some in his mouth, and that’s a pain to clean. John seems pleased either way, the brat.

“So,” John continues, “are you going to talk to a therapist? Because I can recommend you one.”

Jason stiffens, but only a little. He doesn’t want to talk about this, with anyone, let alone someone he (reluctantly) gives a shit about.

John pauses. “You don’t hate me, do you? Now that you know I’m sick?”

“No! Of course not!” he spits out, horrified. “Why would I hate you for that?”

“Oh. Good.” John smiles, a little weakly, and tests the formula again. “My parents kicked me out after I got diagnosed. Did you know some therapists will deliberately over-prescribe medication for psychotic patients, so it looks like they committed suicide when they accidentally OD and die? So make sure you talk to me first, if you decide to.”

Jason feels the rage collect in his chest, white hot and burning. “They what?” he chokes out, after just a moment.

“Uh huh,” says John, shifting Taylor around and attempts to coax her into nursing from the bottle. It takes a moment, but then the room is finally mostly quiet as baby Taylor begins to suck at the nipple, John cooing at her all gentle. “It’s cool if you’re not ready yet,” he adds, as though that’s the problem. “I’m not going to pressure you, or anything. But if you want to, ask me first? Gotham isn’t a safe place to be sick.”

Just for a minute, Jason lets himself be horrified. John is so endlessly kind- he shares any extra food with stray dogs, he’s been spending hours searching for nothing in warehouses with a murderer, he’s nursing a baby he’s not related to because Jason asked- how could anyone murder a kid, let alone someone so bright? He lets it settle in his chest, the rage, white hot and green on the edges and asks, voice heavy and rough “Who?”

John winks.

“John.”

“It’s okay.” Johns says, bouncing the baby a little. “I’ve made my peace with it. I don’t want anyone to get hurt.”

“I’m not going to hurt them,” he grinds out. “We’re just going to have a talk. I wouldn’t put that on you.”

He’ll probably kill them, but he won’t if John asks. He doesn’t want to make John feel responsible. He doesn’t want- he remembers Talia showing him men he hates and offering him that one chance, but John isn’t Jason and Jason doesn’t want John to become like he is. Even Jason doesn’t like himself.

John smiles, though, and shakes his head no. Which is fine. Jason can hold onto this anger, use it the way he did his fear. He’ll track everyone down himself.

“So, who do you go too, now, then?” he asks, finishing off his soup straight from the bowl. “They’re okay?”

“Yeah!” John chirps. “She’s this intern at a Wayne clinic- I don’t pay or need ID or anything, and I get all my sessions and pills. They’re pretty well funded, but still understaffed so I go in once a month. It’s more if you’re unstable or new, though.”

“You seem pretty okay,” he agrees. “Does the medication help that much?”

“So much,” John says “Before I started them, it’s like nothing was real, like nothing happened in this reality. I remember it, but the time seems gone. I blinked, I was in bed at home. I blinked, it was my first winter in the alley. And then, when I look back, I remember getting diagnosed and kicked out, but it’s not sequential.”

“Sucks, kid.” He gestures for John’s bowl and dumps them both in the sink, clicking his helmet shut with a hiss of filtered air. Then, feeling oddly proud of himself, he fills the bowls with water before sitting back down.

“It’s not so bad. I’m doing okay now, because we’ve got my meds figured out. I’m having a really good day, today, too. I want to go home.” John sighs suddenly. “My parents don’t really love me anymore, though. I’m not sure if they’re scared I’ll be evil or ashamed I’m broken.”

Jason feels that same ugly anger rise up. “Being sick doesn’t make you evil, okay? What you do- what you decide to do, why you do it, that’s what does. They kicked you out for needing help, that’s on them. As your parents, they promised to love and help you. And they didn’t. They left you to die. And that’s on them.”

He remembers the exact moment when he realized that Bruce was choosing the Joker. He remembers that with a clarity nothing else can match, not even the agony of the pit, not even the bomb ticking down to death. Not anything. That moment. It’s haunted him that he was never enough. That a monster of a murderer was worth more than he could ever be- ever was, even before he had dipped his hands in blood. No one else should have to feel like that. Not anyone, and especially not someone as kind as John is.

John sniffs. His eyes look bright. Oh no. Oh no.

“More formula!” Jason barks awkwardly. “Taylor’s almost done! How do I, uh-“

“There’s, uh-“ he sniffs, jostling baby Taylor a little so he can rub at his eyes. “There’s instructions on the can. We only have the one bottle so we have to wait until she’s done.”

“Okay.” The clock is creeping closer to four, now. This is when he should be talking to the working girls. “Okay, do you think you can stay here on your own, for a little while? There’s some stuff I need to do.”

“Yeah of course!” John smiles at him, a little watery, but not too bad. He turns things around fast, lets himself feel good. Jason’s families have all been filled with grim people, so it’s odd being around someone that doesn’t seem to beat himself into emotionless paste as a side hobby. “Is it- is it vigilante stuff? Make sure you put your armor back on!”

He nods, disappearing into the bathroom again. He won’t be keeping this safehouse, so there’s no chance of someone trying to use John to get to him through it, so there’s no point to cleaning the water off the floor. Let it molder, someone else’s problem now.

The armor clicks together satisfyingly, an aggressive ensemble in red and grey. His chest plate is blank, but his helmet is distinctive. He doesn’t need an emblem on display- he is the Red Hood, all of him, not just one or two pieces. He’s never bothered cutting himself into masks the way Bruce and Dick do (or did, he doesn’t know them anymore); he’s like Talia in that respect. Every aspect of him ties into another chunk. All him, all the time.

Even the bad parts.

He glances at John on his way out, who’s cradling a happier Taylor and mixing formula together at the counter, before going out the window and grappling to the next building. He’ll be quick, a few moments to chat with the girls, a glance around his territory, and back. On his way over to Cindy’s corner, he adds another point in his to-do list about the murderous therapists, just under ‘clean the dishes, finally’, ‘repair left gauntlet taser’, and ‘mail some severed hands to Black Mask’. Dickhead didn’t get the point with the heads when he was a little more rabid, perhaps some more severed body parts and useless dealers will teach him a lesson.

“Yo,” he calls down to Cindy, before landing behind her with a heavy thud. “Going home soon?”

“Jesus, you scared me!” she gasps, swatting at his arm. “C’mon, Red, you’re going to give a girl heart problems!”

Cindy is a young lady, only a few years older than he is, but the makeup she’s wearing makes her look older. It’s thick and cakey, but well done. He likes it, in the abstract way he likes things he’s not interested in. There’s incredible skill in physically putting a second face on.

“Sorry, Cindy. I’ve been in most of the night, figured I could use a little gossip,” he says, easily, pulling out a tenner for her. She grins at the money, but her eyebrows are tilted like she’s worried.

“You ain’t hurt, are ya? Stupid to be flipping round like you do, if you are.” she pockets the money and pokes his sides like she’s frisking him. “You ain’t worth much if you die on a roof, somewhere.”

“No, no, I’m fine.” He laughs, skipping away from her sharp fingers. The other girls are drifting this way, drawn by his red helmet and the late hour “I found a baby, earlier. Had to figure out how to keep her alive long enough to drop her off at Doctor Thompkins’ clinic.”

“A baby!” squeaks Honey, who’s a bit younger than Cindy. “Where is she? You brought her with you?” she asks, peering around like he’s got newborn Taylor strapped to his shoulders.

“No, no! Left her with a friend. She’ll be fine until morning.”

“Aww,” moans Simone (who’s the oldest, but not as old as the Simone from the market). “You should’ve brought her with you, I love babies.”

“Maybe next time.” he half-promises, because he honestly hope he never finds another rooftop baby. Better than not finding them, though. “Anything I should know about?”

After about twenty minutes of gossip, mostly about Taylor and Jason’s eating habits, the girls start spilling about a string of weird drug overdoses that’ve been dropping some of the homeless people they share corners with. Not any more girls or mob boys have been getting sick, and they think it’s weird. He thinks about the therapist’s John tried to warn him about, and promises to look into it.

On his journey back, he hears the laughter from earlier, and plants his feet firmly on a building so he won’t chase it. He has to get back to John. He can’t afford to waste time.

He blinks and realizes he’s shining a flashlight under a pile of discarded pallets. He doesn’t know how long he’s been in the alley, but after a moment he remembers leaping off the building- his left ankle twinges faintly from where he stumbled the landing. Missing time is not new to him; in the early days, it felt like he’d wake up with a new teacher and a new location every time he went to sleep. Only when he thought about it did the memories return, murky and hard to see. He got faster, stronger, more confused. And meaner.

He'd clean up and Talia would praise him. But that he mostly remembers that because it made him feel sick.

“Yikes,” he says to himself, and turns his back to the laughter.

It’s almost six when he gets to the apartment, John passed out on the bed with Taylor cradled to his chest, Monami across his thighs. For a second, he thinks they’re all dead and someone found them while he was off being fucking crazy- but then he sees the heavy rise and fall of Monami’s chest. “Yikes,” he whispers again, quiet this time. He sheds his armor in the bathroom quickly, gently poking the edges of his domino to make sure it’s secure. They want to head for the clinic just a little bit early. Before a line starts to form of mothers with sick children, bleeding people. Before Leslie is too busy to help them discreetly.

He gets himself back into his civilian clothes, and rushes downstairs to pull John’s from the wash before he forgets or gets distracted again. They’re wet- he’ll hang them on the bar above the shower. John can spend a day or two here, waiting for them, or else Jason will buy him new stuff. Somehow, he doesn’t think John would like an offer to stay here- Jason knows he was freaked out by Bruce’s and Bruce was the Batman. Jason didn’t have to be afraid of the Batman. But everyone’s afraid of the Red Hood, the gun slingin’, murderin’, violent on a whole other level vigilante.

(Something Jason always forgets is that Batman is a terrifying myth, Gotham’s darkest knight, and he is the one who brings babies to his safehouses, who talks to hookers like old friends)

(He is the Red Hood, but he is no monster)

“Monami,” he hisses. The dog is asleep, too, but after a moment and some furious handwaving, she perks up a bit. Her ears twitch and sleepy green eyes begin to blink open. “Monami, wake up. I need you to wake John.” Trying to jostle a street kid awake never goes well, for anyone. He’d rather not risk the broken fingers or startled tears.

Monami boofs gently and pulls herself up to lick at John’s face. God, Jason loves this dog. He watches a moment longer, to make sure John is actually waking up, before turning away.

“Wakey, wakey,” he calls over his shoulder, making himself busy fussing with the plates. Can he clean them? He thinks so. He flicks on the tap and is pleased when he’s able to grab for the soap instead of standing there staring at the running water. “We should leave in about a half an hour, so we miss the early morning rush.”

“Okay,” comes a very small, sleepy voice. “We should pack up the baby supplies you bought, too. Just to make it easier.”

It’s easy, being domestic with John around, Jason finds. Maybe it’s because there’s another person but he finds himself cleaning and drying the dishes and even putting them away without any terrible strain. He can’t hear the sounds of John fucking around with the grocery bags, but when he glances over the kid’s packing everything up into a couple of the bags. The diaper bag’s been torn open, but the wipes haven’t so he’s assuming that the baby hadn’t been fed before being left. John’s got the thing wrapped in his shirts, still, plus one of the small blankets he bought at Simone’s discretion (pink, with blue polka dots).

John’s already seen his mouth, so he just pulls the hood down a little more to shadow the domino “Let’s go?”

“Will she be there yet? It’s still early,” John asks, handing him the bag with the formula, the now-full bottle, and the diapers. He’s eyeing Jason’s face with a small measure of guilt, like he knows he shouldn’t look but can’t stop. Jason gives him a gentle noogie, and nudges him towards the door.

“Yeah, we’ve got a bit of a walk ahead of us, and she’s there super early all the time anyway. It’ll be fine. Your clothes are still drying, you okay to walk in my stuff?”

“It’s not the worst thing I’ve worn.” John nods. “Let’s go.”

The clinic is about a 20 minute walk from his safe house by himself, but John and Monami are quick so he doesn’t bother slowing his stride at all. John’s yanked his shoes on at some point, and Jason can see a scrap of fabric hanging down off his waist from the remains of the OG Taylor blanket, where it’s probably being used as an improv belt.

“You can stay at the safehouse for a couple of days, if you want.” he blurts out, semi-impulsively. “Just while your clothes dry.”

“No thanks,” says John. “Staying in the Red Hood’s safe house seems like a great way to get disemboweled by somebody.”

“Fair enough.” he sighs. “Let me organize better clothes for you, at least.”

“No.”

“Too bad, doing it anyway.”

John shoots him a rude glare, but Jason grew up around Bruce, and the effect is ruined by Monami’s happy grin and the sleepy baby he’s cradling so meh. Maybe he’ll pick up a good jacket, like something he’s got. The weather is gonna get ugly in a couple of months, and Jason’s always gonna do what he can for anybody, let alone someone he knows personally.

“…I’ve survived for this long by myself. You don’t have to take care of me,” comes John’s quiet voice, which is really hard to hear without his helmet. “I know what I’m doing.”

“I know. I was on the streets at your age, too,” he says, ignoring John’s startled glance. “I coulda dealt with anything. But I made a promise to protect the people of Park Row, including making it easier for the people to protect themselves.” He gives John a nod. “Including helping people not die of exposure.”

He doesn’t wait for John to gather his thoughts and respond, just keeps going. “And on that note, in protecting the people, I have to be able to protect them. I’m not saying you’re right, that I’m schizophrenic. But you’re right when you said I might need help. I almost turned away from looking for Taylor because I thought I heard something. I delayed coming back to civilians in my safehouse because I was searching for something I knew wasn’t real. One day, I’m going to miss something. I can’t be a protector if I allow myself to be sick because I don’t want to admit something’s wrong.” By now, his words have turned harsh and grating, and he’s breathing hard like he’s fighting something.

He kind of is.

“I hate it. But I can’t do my job with whatever’s wrong with my head being there. I can’t ignore this. I have a duty not to ignore it. Unlike the person who trained me, I can admit my mistakes. Ignoring what you said was a mistake. I won’t make it twice.”

They’ve stopped walking, and he’s not sure why, but John’s gazing at him with a strange expression. He doesn’t know what it is, but it’s making his chest tight and shaky. He feels like, somewhere, he’s made a good choice.

“Okay.” John says, after another minute, and while John is often cheerful, he’s rarely warm like he is now. “I’ll help you.” And then, with a sly grin Jason thinks isn’t for him: “Does this make me your Robin?”

Jason smacks his shoulder gently “Don’t get ahead of yourself, brat. Let’s go drop off this baby.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! this may turn into a one shot series, so please let me know if you're interested in reading more from this verse.
> 
> also yes! baby taylor is terry mcginnis! he'll be around in future installments as well (though he won't be old enough to come out as trans for a while)
> 
> additional warnings:  
> mentions of medical professionals sabotaging patients with psychosis out of ableism  
> mentions of regular abandonment of mentally ill people in a dangerous area due to ableism  
> a baby is abandoned on a rooftop  
> Jason's thoughts r not a nice place- warning for intrusive thoughts, internalized ableism, and thoughts of a suicidal nature


End file.
